


Addict

by DozingNeko



Series: Johnlock "Daily" Prompts [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Come as Lube, Dry Humping, Established Johnlock, Frottage, Implied shower sex, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Sherlock Might Be A Virgin?, sherlock is a dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-21 20:52:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14293212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DozingNeko/pseuds/DozingNeko
Summary: “When I see you smile, I feel a volcano of lovely eruptions happening within my heart!”― Avijeet DasSherlock is a "user," and John is an enabler.





	Addict

Indulging any of Sherlock's whims would always end up exhausting on the giving party's end. 

If given the opportunity, no matter how adamant he was about his hatred of slumber, he would sleep a month away. 

Provided he was stealthy enough, he would fast until his organs shut down, and still he would refuse to tell John why he was dying on the rug in the sitting room. 

He would smoke to death, run in front of cabs, with any luck, learn the act of spontaneous combustion for his sugar rush of adrenaline. 

John was ready for full blown awkwardness following their first kiss, which had been awkward enough in itself. He'd been wrong, though,  _ as usual. _ Tension _ had _ followed, hanging over their heads like a dark, rain-swollen cloud, but rather than coming to a head, it vanished, right when Sherlock leaned over the arm of John's chair and kissed him. 

_ “Good?” _ The detective had asked between sensuous strokes of his tongue against John's, the several soft presses of Sherlock's lips to his mouth. Warm and slightly chapped, slick with saliva. 

John had grinned, elated.  _ “Perfect.” _

From then on, he was constantly cornered and snogged, regardless of what he was doing. 

Making tea?

Snog. 

Writing a blog post (which rakes in most of their revenue,  _ thanks.) _

Snog. (And a cracked monitor.  _ I told you not to slam it so hard-!) _

About to start a fire?

Snog!

The last one was when John decided to introduce dry humping to the mix, rolling both of them over to crouch above Sherlock, returning the favour of a fervent kiss and simultaneously grinding his cock down against Sherlock's. Watching his jaw unhinge like a serpent’s as their members roughly slid together, the cruel friction of rough fabric between them proving to be just what Sherlock needed as a means of distraction. 

Sherlock didn't last long, and John returned to stoking the hearth while the detective lay boneless and panting beneath him. 

Naturally, Sherlock took this in stride. While not at all tactful or graceful in his advances, he made up for with enthusiasm. 

John was attacked in every corner of the flat, nearly every day. Someone sitting on his lap, humping his thigh while urgent hands massaged his cock. 

Assaulted while he showered, a tall figure sweeping in behind him and kissing his neck, thrusting against his backside with a low moan of satisfaction, urging John to wank to the sensations at well. 

It was simple enough, if somewhat unsatisfying as these trysts lasted. Sometimes Sherlock would get both of them off in one fell swoop: other times he would come blisteringly fast and roll away panting, sluggishly returning to his senses. John masturbated in those times, less for show than for necessity. The act became less intimate. He was merely a pillow for Sherlock to hump. 

He demonstrated the opposite by flipping the two of them over one evening, when Sherlock was intent on rutting against his buttock like an animal. 

Sherlock's silver eyes went massive, staring at John with a front of vulnerable curiosity. Beneath the façade bloomed a fire. “I've had about enough.” John hissed, watching the prone man's pupils swell like a rain puddle. 

A smile pulled his lips, playful and rather cruel. “Enough?” He replied smoothly, an eyebrow slowly lifting. 

“Enough.” John reiterated,  bracketing Sherlock's thighs open with his knees. “Rubbing yourself off on me with no regard for anything except for your own satisfaction.” He squeezed Sherlock's hands in his own, guiding them up to either side of Sherlock's head, without bothering to move his hair. It would keep him still. “Hasn't out crept into your thick skull that _ maybe _ part of the fun of getting off is getting off  _ with _ your significant other?”

Sherlock tilted his head. “I don't follow.”

“Of course you don't.” John rolled his eyes. “All right, fine. Here-” he released Sherlock with his right hand and moved guided it between his legs. His semi throbbed gleefully in Sherlock's palm, filling with blood in a matter of seconds. “Good. Ah, ah!” He held Sherlock by the wrist when he began to pump him, rigorously, with only the end goal in mind. “Don't give me a bloody Indian burn. Go slow.”

The body beneath him arched when he gently cupped Sherlock's groin in his hand, feeling him through his sleep trousers, damp with sweat and precum, and so marvelously hard. A frantic stutter of his name broke the stillness of the room. 

John drifted closer, bringing his face to Sherlock's neck and sighing, leaning his hips into the smooth strokes. “You're doing good.” He praised, bringing his hands below the hem of Sherlock's trousers. Sherlock's was hot, achingly hot in his hand, squirming with want. Delayed gratification usually wielded greater results, John decided, dragging his thumb over Sherlock's moist slit.

“Augh, b-b-"

Shushing him softly, John brought his hand to the base of Sherlock's shaft, squeezing gently until he croaked, before continuing to play with his bollocks. He weighed them in his hand, rubbing them gently with his palm. 

Roused from inertia, Sherlock renewed his strokes, managing to free his right hand from under John's left and reaching down his trousers. With minimal adjustment, Sherlock was mimicking the ministrations. Tiny, cautious squeezes, rolling them in his palm while his other hand stroked mercilessly. 

John groaned into his neck, smirking when Sherlock shivered, nearly coming from just that: a hand on his balls and a voice in his ears. “No, no,” John diffused, kissing Sherlock's chin, clamping a hand down on Sherlock's hilt, “what song ends in a crescendo?”

“Plenty.” Sherlock growled. 

“Those are boring.” John replied. “Ends too abruptly,”

“1812 Overture has  _ actual _ cannons in it.” Sherlock replied, shuddering and moaning when John's hand began to jerk him once more. 

“Be that as it may.” John sat up, slotting their lips together, kissing Sherlock with as much force as he could muster, pressing his cock into the stiff cocoon of fingers. “Isn't it much more  _ gratifying _ to draw it out-?”

Sherlock shook his head, whining into John's mouth when he descended for another snog. “No,” he mewled when John allowed him to come up for air, “I wanna c- _ mmmmph-" _

John silenced him, propped up on his elbow and reaching for the bedside drawer. “No,” he growled decisively, popping open the tube of slick, “it hasn't even gotten  _ good _ yet.” 

_ “Now.” _ Sherlock demanded, rolling his hips sinuously, his face pinched and head thrown back. 

Squeezing a generous drop into the centre of his palm, he quickly exchanged hands, his dominant fist working Sherlock expertly. Measured strokes, achingly slow, waiting for Sherlock to fist his cock before speeding up. Lube proved to be nearly too much. Two tugs nearly popped him off. 

“Oh,  _ John.  _ Oh,  _ John.” _ The two words occurred in quick succession, the former sounding like a plea while the other remained a swear. 

John focused on sensation; the heat of Sherlock in his fingers, smooth unguent oiling their coupling, the feeling of sweaty palms on his groin, curiously feeling his hair while simultaneously pulling on his cock. Sherlock was a steady press against his chest, the perspiration on his collarbone smelling sharp, tasting like salt when he dragged his tongue over it. 

Sherlock came in a hoarse shout, riding the throes of orgasm like a raging bull, grasping John's hips and thrusting into his fist. His eyes went huge and unseeing, silver twin stars nearly eclipsed by black. His face went a rather alarming red, insinuating he'd stopped breathing for a short second, before steeling for the aftershocks. His hips rose, wetness spreading up his belly and over his prick as John worked him through, refusing to stop until Sherlock was on the verge of sobbing. 

“Incredible, my love.” John whispered, scooping up Sherlock's seed from his abdomen and wanking, staring down at Sherlock's face, watching his face darken with contemplation. “You're so perfect when you come.”

Sherlock grunted, blinking several times to clear his vision. He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. “Oh g-John, my god,” he squeezed John's bicep, trembling minutely. He could feel the strain of muscle against his fingers. 

“This is how we're _ supposed _ to do.” John leaned down, kissing his throat, biting his smooth skin. “Together, as one, a unit.” His voice was becoming a steadily angrier growl, holding Sherlock down by his left shoulder, wildly pumping his cock, release just on the horizon, teasing him with his proximity. “But maybe I should return the treatment one day,” he pondered, truly enjoying the frantic look on Sherlock’s face as he followed John upwards, warm breaths filling the increasing space between their bodies as the doctor sat up, glaring at Sherlock.

That little crinkle between his brow was there again, a look of puzzlement. “John?”

“Believe it or not, I like my sexual urges  _ sated. _ Not riled up and left to fizzle out. I would not hold you down and hump your arse and leave you to your own devices.” John told him dryly, shaking his head. “Cruel, cruel prick-”

“Sorry. Sorry, sorry,” Sherlock hissed in a rush, overtaking the motions of masturbation, his hand fast and sure, urging John on with little stretches of his foreskin, teasing his head, gently rubbing his moist glans until he was coming, surprised to his core.

John breathed deeply, groaning at the feeling of hands on his overstimulated flesh, massaging his bollocks again. At last, he collapsed, unapologetically on top of Sherlock, who grunted but accepted him readily.

“Sorry. I didn’t realise-”

“I never said anything.” John forgave him with a long sigh. “Appreciate the follow through, though.”

“Anytime.”


End file.
